


And It Goes Like This

by Cohens_Girl



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Angst, Dark, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 00:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3270698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cohens_Girl/pseuds/Cohens_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The in-between times are the hardest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And It Goes Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own anything herein, all belongs to Square Enix. I just like to play in their sandbox. Also, the lyrics in italics at the beginning and end are from Hozier's song Take Me To Church - I honestly think its one of the most beautiful songs ever written and if you haven't heard it, you must go listen to it first!
> 
> My usual fare - dark and ambiguous with some bonus man-kissing. Set pre-game. I don't think its ever really specified where any of The Turks live - I just figured that they probably lived in one of the sectors like everyone else. At least, I figured Reno would, even if the others didn't, just to be contrary. Apologies if I'm wrong!
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> No real warnings except for a bit of foul language.

 

 

*

 

_There is no sweeter innocence, than our gentle sins._

 

*

 

There are no stars; there is no sky. There is only damp air, dark metal, and a ringlet of smoke sweeping up in loose curls until it silently and unassumingly fades into the blackness.

 

The days when he would have passed up on a smoke are long gone. Now the dull smoulder of nicotine in his chest is just one of many aches, an unceremonious form of self-torture that brings with it a strange, enveloping sense of fabricated calm; much like draping a blanket over a man half-frozen to death. It's too little too late, but more about comfort than genuine need. It's a way not to think - out here in the cool, thousands of neon lights spread out beneath him, people scuttling like ants between the crumbling buildings. Each and every one simply struggling to survive another day.

 

All except Rude, killing himself piecemeal, one cigarette at a time.

 

*

 

Their flat is quiet tonight. Not the raging anger of a mission gone wrong, nor the hedonistic ecstasy of a mission gone right; no television on low-hum, no music blaring, no rowdy voices. Only a noiseless ache, a sickness that settles in his glass like poison.

 

Because one small act of slow-suicide is not enough for Rude - and whiskey tastes so much sweeter.

 

Reno has opted for a bottle of vodka that is probably better for stripping paint than drinking; slumped in a chair, an amalgamation of wiry limbs and voiceless misery, he does not need to speak. Now and again, he listlessly spins a blinding red strand around his finger, before letting the hair fall back to cover his face. It goes like this, sometimes. If Rude were honest with himself - a rare occurence, to be sure - he would admit that he's just glad Reno is here, safe from everyone but himself, rather than out in the dark finding ways to mask this steady downward spiral with momentary pain. He tries not to be protective. He knows it is a losing battle, that Reno will one day pick a fight he cannot hope to win but it's a calling in his blood, an instinct - the boy still looks so young, fragile white skin and mouse-thin bones. Lithe and quick he may be but he does not eat enough to be muscular, does not train enough to be strong : knows how to shoot, his Reno, and how to sneak up and tase a man but not how to defend himself. He makes Rude feel necessary, feel needed - Hell, he's Rude's only tether to this entire god-forsaken planet.

 

But they are two men built for murder and the in-between time is the hardest. When you struggle to remember who you are and cannot forget what you have done; when you sit staring at the walls, waiting for life to slip by you...that will wear any man down. It drives you mad, in the end.

 

Reno takes a swig from the bottle. Rude wonders if they aren't half-mad already.

 

He prays for Tseng to call.

 

*

 

When he is drunk and numb in all the places where it should hurt, Rude wonders if there is a way for this to be different - if he can't somehow make a picture of all these shattered pieces, build them into something better. They are both young, both smart; they are not destitute. There is no reason to suffer like this, except habit. This, here, this dingy flat and this abrasive boy, this is his life : not the killing, not the Turks, not the silent agony crawling on his skin.

 

So why can't he walk away from it? Why can't he _change_ it?

 

He's not sure what look he offers Reno; does not know what his expression is, or what notion he might be conveying - but Reno stares back at him, all Mako-bright eyes and some wounded, twisting smile. For a few long moments, their hushed breaths fill all the silent spaces, until finally he whispers,

 

"Rude." like a plea, like the whimper of some broken animal, waiting for someone with enough mercy to put it out of its misery. "I'm dying here."

 

And he knows. He knows.

 

As he moves closer, he has no inkling of what he intends; what matters is that Reno shifts with him, mirrors him, _trusts_ him. He doesn't know what he wants, only that Reno wants it too, and that is enough. He touches the younger man's face, featherlight; the tips of his fingers careful under Reno's chin, he slides a calloused thumb over delicate cheekbone, relishes the way that Reno obligingly leans into the touch. Rude's mind is blissfully blank as he cards a hesitant hand through silky soft hair, catching dim lamplight in a cascade of molten red. Reno makes a noise that catches in his throat, sounds just as uncertain as Rude feels, perhaps even a little surprised.

 

"What are ya doin', yo?" He asks softly, and Rude keeps him quiet by pressing their lips together; rough, cracked skin and vodka burn, Reno's hands firm on his chest, fingers curling and tongue insistent. Soft wet heat and Reno's approving rumbles vibrating through his flesh; Rude knows he's holding perfection in his hands and he's never been so terrified. Shit, he didn't even know he wanted this and now the inevitability of losing it makes him feel sick to the bone.

 

Reno nips sharply at his lip, drags him back to the present.

 

When bending down begins to ache more than Rude can ignore, he sinks slowly between Reno's knees, his hands wrapped around the younger man's waist, pulling him close. Fuck, it should always be like this. He could spend his entire life right here.

 

Reno grins down at him; a hyena, a predator, ready to devour.

 

"Man," he whispers, leaning closer, "Now we're talkin'."

 

*

 

Three hours later, feeling sore and dirty and sated, Rude fumbles for his cigarettes only to have the packet batted out of his hand.

 

"D'n smoke that shit." Reno mumbles, already half-asleep.

 

Rude looks at him, porcelaine white and feral as all Hell, grinning like a wild-cat even as he dozes.

 

Rude looks, and feels nothing but a tender warmth that he knows can only spell disaster.

 

*

 

The next day, around a mouthful of powdered eggs, Reno grumbles,

 

"We don't have to like - talk about this, right? We're - cool, yo?"

 

Rude snorts and hands him a mug of coffee.

 

"Yeah," The other man mumbles, shifting awkwardly, "I just, y'know, I don't want things to get. Complicated."

 

Rude had anticpated the skittishness, of course, but dealing with it is another matter entirely. It's too precarious, this thing, this, this perfect, impossible thing, and his compulsion - like Reno's, no doubt - is to break it before it breaks him. He can hardly blurt out _you are all that is good about this shithole_ because Reno would flee from that, would fear it, _hate_ it. He probably wouldn't, or couldn't, understand the sentiment.

 

What Rude says instead is,

 

"Nothing has changed." Which is a lie, because everything has changed. Everything has changed, irreversibly, and he wasn't so drunk that he doesn't remember how _right_ Reno felt in his hands.

 

He also knows Reno well enough not to miss the flicker of betrayal that darkens his features, for the briefest of moments.

 

"Right." He mutters. "Good, yo. Perfect."

 

Rude knows he should fix this; reiterate, try to explain something of how he really feels. They should not go on a mission with Reno in self-destruct mode. But he doesn't. He's not good with words. Instead he stands outside under the leadened sky and smokes, cursing himself and his uselessness and this stupid addiction.

 

He waits for the nicotine burn, for this broken world to settle back into a familiar rhythm. 

 

When he steps back inside, Reno is leaning against the kitchen counter, head balanced pensively in his hands, gazing out into the perpetual darkness.

 

Beautiful.

 

"Reno." Rude murmurs, and when Reno glances over, he smiles -

 

*

 

\- and Tseng calls.

 

*

 

_Only then I am human,_

_Only then I am clean._


End file.
